1
Cate
"They say it’s bad luck to buy yourself an opal.” My first customer of the day brushes a strand of silky-blonde hair from her ageless face and gifts me with a lip-bitten smile from the other side of the glass counter. “But I’m feeling lucky today and that piece is to die for. Would you mind?”
With a polished nail the color of a ballet slipper, she points to a vintage Blanchard-Moet cocktail ring, an unapologetic gold number with an oversized opal in the center and a halo of glistening diamonds.
“Of course.” I remove the key from the satin ribbon on my wrist and retrieve the bauble, careful to place it on a pale pink square of velvet as if it were worth a million dollars and not five hundred—shop owner’s rule. I keep close as she examines it under the store lights with the kind of enthusiasm that belongs in another world, another time. It’s almost as if she’s never seen anything so magnificent as this ring, childlike oohs and aahs, a whole production. “This is off the record, but allegedly this piece once belonged to Wallis Simpson. A gift from her first husband—before she married King Edward VIII.”
The woman diverts her gaze—the bluest I’ve ever seen—to me. “You’re kidding.”
I lift a palm in protest. “That’s what our seller told us, though I will say we haven’t been able to verify that.”
The woman slips it over her right ring finger, taking in the shimmering view from all angles as she exhales with the purest of sighs. It fits as if it were made for her, and it looks as though it were too. I suppose when your hand is slender and delicate, you can pull off anything from gaudy cocktail rings to chunky diamond eternity bands to the unapologetic rock on her left ring finger.
Everyone is married in Palm Shores. Everyone but me, that is. But technically I only work in Palm Shores. I live in her western, less glamorous sister city, the one with more people, more crime, less money, and houses without sweeping views of the rolling Atlantic. Most people don’t vacation to West Palm Shores.
Not that I’m complaining.
I’m quite content with my life exactly the way it is.
Honest.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Folding my hands together in front of my hips, I place my stunted, thickset digits out of sight, though I can still hear my mother’s voice tsk-ing away at the sorry fact that I inherited the unfortunate Cabot Fingers.
“Even if the Wallis Simpson story isn’t true, I love the idea of it, don’t you?” She bounces on the balls of her feet once, an excited woman-child. “Makes it a little more than something pretty. Gives it meaning. A story that lives on forever.”
“This place is full of stories,” I say. And it’s true. Smith + Rose is Palm Shores’ most popular high-end consignment boutique, drawing in fastidious shoppers of a certain breed from all over the world as well as bored vacationers ambling away from their resorts, money so Florida-hot it’s burning holes in their pockets.
“That silk scarf.” I point to a mannequin in the front window display. “Once belonged to Jackie O. in the seventies.”
"Allegedly?”
“Verifiably. Her great niece’s sister-in-law brought it in last month, along with a picture and a notarized document.”
The leggy blonde, still wearing the opal ring, departs from the glass case to check out the vintage scarf.
I check the time on my watch, jonesing for my next break. I can almost taste the nicotine sting on the tip of my tongue. Smoking at work is always a whole thing—a paper-thin PVC jacket to keep the stink from leaching into my clothes, gloves to protect my fingers from staining, peppermint gum. I tried the whole patch thing once without luck. My doctor wrote me some pills last year that were supposed to help, but they only gave me nightmares. It’s a dirty, disgusting habit, but for now it owns me.
“It isn’t my style, but my God is it beautiful,” she says.
She’s right. It isn’t her style at all. She’s sleek and modern, dressed in head-to-toe black with hair so pale it’s almost white—not a hint of brass. If she’s a local, I imagine she goes to one of those upmarket hair salons on Caraway Avenue, where the stylists are so busy they have assistants—and some of their assistants are so busy they have assistants.
“My mother would just adore this,” she says, her fingertips light along the patterned fabric. “Though we’re a long way from Christmas, and her birthday isn’t until October. I’ll keep this in mind.”
“Of course.” Although I earn a small commission on all of my transactions, we’re under strict orders not to pressure shoppers or oversell products. The owners of Smith + Rose feel any high-pressure tactics cheapen the shop’s experience.
“You know …” she says, returning, her fingers toying with the opal ring. “I have a few things I’m looking to sell, but I haven’t the slightest idea where to begin.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Nice things,” she glances around, peering through fringes of jet-black lashes as soft as gossamer. “Heirloom quality pieces. Vintage. Rare. Designer.”
“You’ll want to make an appointment with the owners. They personally handpick everything. If you have receipts, documents, appraisals, anything to help show the value of your item, you’ll have the best chance at being accepted. Here.” I retrieve a business card from behind the register and hand it over.
She tucks the card into a cognac-hued Balworth bag, a purse that—if I’m not mistaken—costs a whopping twelve grand retail and requires an eighteen-month stint on a wait list. The wooden handle boasts a black silk scarf tied into a flouncy bow—a little pop of feminine whimsy against the backdrop of a perfectly chic ensemble.
“Thank you so much. I’ll definitely reach out to them.”
A rumble comes from outside, and the sky has darkened from just a few moments ago. Angry clouds usher in a tropical thunderstorm. It’ll likely last twenty minutes or so, and anyone strolling by will seek refuge in my store until it passes.
Tourists always forget umbrellas.
They don’t know Palm Shores isn’t always sunshine and blue skies.
“Just so you know, they’re never here on Mondays or Tuesdays.” Not that she’s asked why they aren’t here today, but I feel compelled to share that information should she stop in another time. “But you can almost always find them Wednesday through Friday.”
“Must be nice to only have to work three days a week …” she says with a wink. “How long have you worked here?”
“Almost nine years.” I’ve only been asked this question twice since working here. The first time the woman had asked me as an insult when she attempted to imply that my age at the time correlated to unprofessionalism and inexperience. This was after she marched in to demand a refund on a non-returnable necklace. When that didn’t work, she claimed the piece was a fake, going so far as to have a fake letter drafted up on fake letterhead from some fake insurance agency.
This woman in front of me is nothing like that miserable lady who never set foot in here again after that shit show.
This woman is anything but miserable. I swear there’s an aura about her, vibrant beams of sunlight splaying out from her like an angelic being in an oil painting. “She has good vibes,” as one of my old friends would’ve said. She was always judging people by their “vibes.”